Hate Me Not

I find that ages five to ten were the most crucial years of my life. That was when I developed loneliness, I still carry with me.  I longed for love, care, and security.

My parents were wealthy—yes, at least in material things. But compared to something like a cellphone, their wealth felt like just an accessory. The most important part of a family is love—just love. I believe that when love is real, respect, compassion, and understanding naturally follow. But sometimes, we forget the one thing that builds these values: communication. I believe that communication is the bridge to healthy relationships.

By communication, I mean one person speaks, and the other listens—without screaming, without cursing, without cutting the speaker off, being rational and understanding with one another,  having the capability to accept right and wrong.  That, I think, was the biggest problem in my family. Communication always meant fighting. The line between discussion and argument was so thin that every problem was never resolved because there was no love in it. It was always the same exhausting cycle—someone had to prove they were better than the other. And with each fight, the walls between us grew taller.

I still remember one night when I was about nine years old. We were all at home when a blackout happened. Candles were lit throughout the house, and everyone sat in silence, fanning themselves for relief from the heat. I saw my brother who's my sixth sibling and he was nearly a teenager at the time, playing with the fire. He moved his fingers back and forth over the candle flame, just enough to create a swooshing effect.

I was mesmerized.

Excited, I sat next to him and started copying what he was doing. But the moment I did, his expression changed. His face hardened with anger. Without warning, he picked up the candle and pressed the flame against my arm. I watched in shock as my skin burned.

Screams erupted around me. In panic, I ran through the house, staring at the burning flesh on my arm. I had no idea what to do. I rushed into a room, locked the door, and started scratching at the burn, thinking I could put out the fire. Instead, I only scraped my skin off, forcing the heat deeper. I didn’t even realize I had locked myself in.

My brother-in-law, who was still with my sister at the time, heard the commotion and came running. He heard my cries through the door and tried desperately to open it. I still don’t know how he managed to unlock it, but when he did, he found me crying, my arm charred black from the third-degree burn. Without hesitation, he carried me and rushed me to the nearest clinic.

I remember how worried he was. The doctor cleaned my wound and wrapped it in a bandage. Soon after, my parents arrived. My dad carried me home, and when we got back, he turned on my brother, yelling at him in rage. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want my father to scream at my brother—I just wanted him to talk to him, to tell him to apologize. And if he did, I would have forgiven him.

I wanted to ask him why he did it. I wanted to understand. But that never happened. My father’s shouting filled the house until, eventually, everything fell silent. Then we all went to bed. I lay there, crying quietly, my head filled with questions.

The next day, it was as if nothing had happened.

I was not angry with my brother, simply confused. Why did he react that way when I sat beside him? Why was he so furious when I copied him? It wasn’t the burn that hurt the most—it was the anger. The way he shut me out. The isolation he placed between us.

I never spoke to him about it. Not then. Not ever.

I was never mad at him, and I never will be—because I love him. But the walls between us never came down, and even now, when I look at the scar, I don’t remember the pain of the burn.

I remember the hate in his eyes. Hate that I will never understand. *sigh*

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-to be continued-